It’s a calm and peaceful Saturday morning. I hadn’t planned much in for today which is rare for me! I only flew back home two days ago. My trip to the UK had been amazing and refreshing! It had been exactly what I’d needed to rest and recuperate from surgery. The miscarriage, as awful as it had been, seeing friends and family back in the homeland made the pain of it all seem a little less intense. I stare at the vacuum as I’m attempting to push it through our brand new rug and get all of the dog hair. The new rug is the perfect color to conceal Charlie and Gracie’s mammoth amount of shedding! I pause… my chest feels tight.
Three days ago, right before I flew back home to Virginia Beach, my sister had gotten sick. “Don’t you dare give that to me!” I’d jokingly said to her. But unfortunately the germs were shared. No surprise really after what my body had gone through the past few weeks. Immune system was down and I was still recovering. It had been years since I’d been sick. My throat felt like I was swallowing razors and my skin was hurting bad. Strange symptoms but I was thankful it wasn’t covid or anything more serious.
I continue pushing the vacuum through the rug. I should have bought a less fluffy one! I pause again… Too familiar with these symptoms, l start praying against any asthma exacerbation. I sit on the couch for a minute and reply to a message from a friend. I share my latest symptoms with her… “looks like the head cold is moving into my chest.” Before I get back up she’s responded. “Go to Patient First and get a breathing treatment before it gets worse!” I look around the house. I’m almost done cleaning, might as well finish. I get the mop out and start mopping as I consider my options… Ignore the tight chest and pretend I’m fine, or actually be pro-active and go to Patient First. I hate going to the doctors. I avoid it at all costs. But usually by avoiding it, I make it worse and end up in hospital or if it’s asthma related – the ICU. I decide to make the wise decision, be pro-active and head out to Patient First.
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It’s 7am. The sun shines brightly into my room as another new morning breaks. For a moment life feels normal. But as my eyes adjust to the light I’m quickly reminded it’s not. I hear beeping around the unit, nurses talking as shift change takes place, doors opening and closing, call bells going off, an IV takes up most of my arm, bruising from hundreds of needles take up the rest and a central line sits painfully in my neck. Life hasn’t been normal for a while.
I had spent maybe all of 10 minutes at Patient First before an ambulance was called. My wheezing had gotten worse by the time I saw a doctor and my oxygen levels hovered in the 80s. My chest had continued to get tighter and by the time we’d arrived to the ER I was ready for the usual magnesium and steroid drips, breathing treatments and oxygen. I’d hoped it would only last a few hours, my asthma would clear and I’d be on my way home. Never in a million years did I expect what was about to unfold.
As I desperately stare out the window wishing I could transport myself outside and feel the wind on my face, it’s hard to keep the tears from falling. More than five weeks had passed. Memories are blurry, time obscure, an hour in this bed could feel like days yet five weeks had vanished just like that. For a second words fail me as I try to take in the magnitude of what had unfolded and attempt to understand the reality of what was still taking place.
Four hours on and my asthma hadn’t cleared after getting to the ER. Pneumonia was also found at the bottom of my lungs and the doctor came in and told me he was admitting me. I was frustrated and annoyed. Sometimes I hated my body so much. First a ridiculously complicated miscarriage… now this. Really? It’s only February. As I was wheeled to Unit 4D Room 375 at Sentara Princess Anne Hospital, I was trying to get my head around spending the night here. I had too much to do. I had a crazy work-week coming up, scripts to write, stories to shoot, shows to produce. I didn’t have time to spend tonight in hospital. Little did I know I wouldn’t physically be walking out of there for the next 40 days. FORTY. I was about to be bed bound for almost 6 weeks.
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The thing about life is that you can’t predict it. You don’t know what’s going to happen from one moment to the next. Sure, you can plan and organize, you can attempt to have your life straightened out, ordered and efficient. But the reality is that in a second everything can change and there’s nothing you can do to control it or have any influence over it. I went from being a 34-year-old athlete, training 9x a week for a triathlon, working 60 hour weeks as a producer in live television to being bed bound in a hospital unable to walk more than a few steps without my oxygen bottoming out.
One moment I was healthy and unbelievably fit. The next… my lung capacity dropped to 11%. I went from having a resting heart rate of 43 BPM to not being able to walk 5 steps without it sky rocketing to 150. I went from being able to breathe without oxygen sitting at 98-100% to dropping into the 70s, 60s and even the 50s anytime I removed the oxygen or tried to walk. Life… you can’t predict it. You most certainly can’t control it.
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For 6 weeks I went through every test. Hundreds of needles. More doctors than I’ve ever seen in my entire life. And yet no answer was discovered. There were theories, hypotheses, beliefs and suspicions, yet nothing concrete was found. 8 rounds of IV IG later and I saw slight improvement in my significant muscle loss. Some strength had returned. Yet my oxygen continued to drop. Eventually plasmapheresis was decided on and a central line was put in. I’d go through 5 rounds of treatment every day other. The Red Cross came in to do it and they would take out all my plasma and replace it with new plasma. I felt hopeful, yet also completely desperate. If this didn’t work… would I ever be able to go home? Would I ever be able to return to the life I loved? Would I ever be able to breathe again without being attached to oxygen?
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As I sit on the couch in my living room I feel every emotion return as I think back to the last few months. There’s been a lot of tough moments in my life. Too many to count. But I can honestly say the last 6 weeks have been some of the hardest of my entire life. Those who know me, know I can’t sit still for more than 5 minutes without getting antsy. 40 days being bed bound was difficult on a level I will never quite be able to describe. I never knew how much pain your body could be in from not moving. I never realized how unbelievably sore restless legs and a restless body was. About halfway through my time in hospital I remember praying to Jesus, not just praying, but crying out and asking if I was going to die? I’ve come close to death so many times. Yet this felt different. I remember asking God that if this was it to give me a peace about it because I wasn’t ready to go. I loved this life. I felt like I had so much more to give. Tears flooded down my cheeks as I thought about leaving Ryan, my family and friends, the unbelievable life I had been given, the people in it and the incredible job I loved so much. I wasn’t ready. But for once I also wasn’t quite sure how this was going to play out. My body was exhausted, depleted, weak, I had lost 15lbs of muscle, my vision was getting more and more blurry and with every oxygen drop my memory was getting more hazed. I was on so much medication and sedation that I didn’t remember entire days or people visiting. Full conversations were lost and it was hard to stay in the moment. I’m not a big cryer yet the tears that have hit have come from a deep place I didn’t know existed and pray I never have to feel again.
And yet there was so much beauty all around. Isn’t it amazing how the deepest and darkest of places brings out the brightest of lights? You can’t see light unless there’s an element of dark. When it’s pitch black, the light can radiate at full intensity. Hundreds of people walked through the doors of the hospital to come and see me. Guitars were brought in, full worship sessions broke out. Thousands of prayers were spoken over me from all over the world. People I had never even met heard about my story and were praying and sending messages of support. I met and got to know so many people in the hospital because I was there for so long. From doctors to nurses, the respiratory team, bed transport people, security, food & nutrition, PT’s, check in people, the list goes on & on. Some of those people have genuinely changed my life forever. I got an inside look into the unbelievable and life-changing job the nurses do. Without them I wouldn’t be alive today. They are the glue which keeps hospitals together and I never understood how hard their jobs were until I watched them in action for 6 weeks straight. I cannot put into words the way they have impacted my life. From helping me with puzzles, to popping in every hour to make sure I was doing ok, so many of them – even when they weren’t my nurse for the day were invested in my journey and recovery and fought for me and with me to get to the bottom of what was going on. They supported me through my worst and celebrated with me in the highs. There are not enough words in this world to thank them and help them understand how their support kept me going through some of the hardest moments of my life. I look back and even though it was dark, I see light which far engulfs the dark. I see the miracles and the testimonies. I see God so close even when He seemed so far. I see the hundreds of coffee dates I got to have with people, the relationships which were deepened and the new friendships which were formed. I see the fight I found in myself even when I didn’t think I had any fight left. I see a community of people who surrounded me and lifted me up when I was sinking. I’m blown away by the support I’ve received these past months and as I walked out of the hospital I walked out different, knowing I’ll never be quite the same again. There have been tears, and deep sorrow, intense hopelessness and extreme pain. But there have also been miracles and highs, incredible joys and real genuine happiness. I’ve always said I’ll never understand life. This has once more confirmed that statement. And yet with each season of not understanding I seem to learn more about myself, God and the journey I’m on.
Challenges changes people. Pain deepens you. As I reflect back on the tough I also know it’s made me stronger. It’s made me more determined to not waste a moment. To live purposeful and have a faith that’s unwavering.
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April 6th 2023 I was officially discharged from the hospital. The day before Good Friday. I had been in hospital exactly 40 days and was going home for Easter. Plasmapheresis had worked. After the 3rd treatment I was able to come off oxygen and after the 4th treatment I was able to walk around my unit. By the 5th treatment I was like a new person.
I still have no answers. The journey continues as we try to figure out what happened and if it could return. It’s hard not knowing and occasionally it makes me feel a little wobbly. Cancer, autoimmune diseases, many words have been thrown around yet nothing has been fully confirmed. Tests have indicated my nerves and brain weren’t communicating with each other and more tests confirmed there was something attacking my diaphragm and respiratory system. No name however. And no official diagnosis means no way of knowing how to avoid this from happening again. Fear wants to take charge but I refuse to let it. I might not have the answers but every day I’m given opportunities. Do I live them out in fear of the unknown? Or do I make the most of what’s in front of me and what I’ve been given? Whatever has been attacking my body these last months could come back. If it’s autoimmune it can flare up. But I’ve decided I’m not going to live my life in fear. I’m not going to expect a flare-up. Life is too short and the opportunities too few.
10 minutes before I walked out of the hospital last week a code blue was called on my unit and a man, someone’s father, died before being barely resuscitated and run to the ICU. As I listened to the man’s daughter screaming and crying right outside of my room, it was a very real reminder that life is short and I’m unbelievably thankful to be alive. I’ve heard multiple code blue’s over the last 6 weeks. People have died. And people will continue to die. I got to walk out of there alive, despite having had some close calls. And for that I am indebted with gratitude.
I would love to say that the hard is over but really a big part of this journey is only just beginning. Being bed bound for 40 days is no joke. The muscle loss has been extreme and it’s definitely taken a toll on my body. To get back to the level of fitness I was at is proving to be very painful, hard and will be far from a walk in the park. It hurts to walk and at times it hurts to breathe. But I’m determined and I know I’ll get there no matter how hard it is or how much it hurts.
I’m alive. And I’m home. I’m off oxygen and I can move. There were many moments where I wasn’t sure what the rest of my life was going to look like. So I’ll take the hard and walk head first into it. Because I’m breathing and thankful beyond words that I get to keep on journeying out this thing called life!
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